


What if this is all the love I'm ever shown?

by givebackmylifecas



Series: On your back in the glass [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin is alive because I like him that way, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Helsinki deserves better, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, so does Nairobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: Andrés should tell Nairobi that she’s wrong, that Martín admitted the truth and Andrés stepped on it like a bug.“The only truth is reality,” Martín counters, a fake smile frozen on his face. “And I’m going to explain it to you. Look. You love big man. Big man loves me. And I,” he says, and he is no longer looking at Nairobi, he’s staring straight past her, at Andrés. “I don’t love anyone. And that’s exactly why you hate me.”An alternate version of season three and four, if Berlin were still alive and hadn't seen Palermo since he left him before the mint heist.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: On your back in the glass [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752175
Comments: 36
Kudos: 275





	What if this is all the love I'm ever shown?

**Author's Note:**

> I binge-watched la casa de papel this week and Berlermo consumed me and made me sad at the same time, so i had to write this.
> 
> Trigger warnings for a very depressed Palermo with suicidal thoughts, Andrés being just as much of an asshole as usual, swearing, homophobic and derogatory language as used in the show, and some violence (although only that shown in the show)
> 
> Also, I absolutely love all of the characters (except for Arturo ofc) so any negativity is entirely from Andrés and Martín's slightly crazy brains.
> 
> Fic title from the snow patrol song "what if this is all the love i ever get?"

Tokyo looks the same, sure she’s cut her hair and she looks a little more tanned, but that sly look in her eye is still there when she and Sergio turn up on his doorstep. Andrés doesn’t acknowledge her beyond a nod, just steps aside to let his brother and Tokyo into his house.

It’s small for his standards, still elegant of course, but he can’t help but miss the sprawling grounds of the monastery.

“Sergio,” Andrés says as he leads them into the living room. “Why are you here?” He takes a seat in an armchair, gesturing for his unexpected guests to sit on the sofa opposite him.

“Rio’s been taken,” Tokyo blurts before Sergio can speak.

Andrés raises an eyebrow. “You’re a very irresponsible babysitter Tokyo, I’m surprised he didn’t run off earlier.”

Tokyo growls, a flash of the familiar fire lighting in her dark eyes. Sergio pacifies her with a hand on her shoulder and glares at Andrés. “This is serious. They have Rio, but they haven’t reported it. Anything could be happening to him.”

“Torture,” Tokyo whispers the word, eyes downcast, no longer boring in to Andrés’.

Andrés has been accused of not having feelings, but even he doesn’t wish torture on a kid like Rio.

Andrés sighs, settling more comfortably into his armchair, legs elegantly crossed. “I’m sure you already have a scheme to get him out, Professor, so I will repeat my earlier question: Why are you here?”

Sergio nods, pushing his ridiculous glasses up his nose. “I do have a plan, and it involves yours.”

“My what?”

“Your plan,” Sergio says. “Your plan to rob the Bank of Spain, by melting gold.”

 _I suggested melting gold together._ The words echo around his brain, dredged up from the most repressed part of his memories. With them come the image of Martín as Andrés had left him, propped up against the stone wall as if his legs would no longer support him, his face wet with tears, eyes desperate and full of heartbreak.

“My plan,” Andrés says slowly, ignoring how Tokyo looks between him and Sergio, her face full of confusion.

Sergio nods again. “Well, not just yours. And of course we can’t do it without Martín, so we’ll need to –“ He is cut off as Andrés suddenly gets to his feet.

“I’m sorry little brother, but I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing. You said five years ago that the plan doesn’t work, can’t work.” He gestures at the door, but Sergio and Tokyo infuriatingly remain seated.

“It can work,” Sergio says. “We’ll need to make some changes, plan for every eventuality. But I need both you and Martín to do it.”

Andrés shakes his head, but Tokyo speaks before he can. “Berlin. They have Rio and he doesn’t deserve whatever they’re doing to him. If it was you, he would help, you know he would.”

Andrés thinks of Rio, his naivety, his bright smile and tousled hair. So young and so clever just like someone else he had known a long time ago. “Tokyo get out, I need a word with my brother.” Tokyo scowls, but leaves the room. Andrés retakes his seat and Sergio leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I don’t think you should bring Martín in,” he tells his brother when he hears Tokyo crashing about in the kitchen. “You said yourself that he was a risk.”

Sergio shakes his head, his overgrown hair falling into his eyes. “If this is to work, we need him. Tell me honestly that you think we can do this and make it out alive without him? Besides, he was only a problem when he was in love with you. That won’t be a problem any more, will it?”

Andrés laughs, cold and without humour. Despite his intelligence, his little brother was truly still a naïve teenager when it came to matters of the heart.

“You think he doesn’t love me anymore? Fine. But him hating me will be worse.”

Sergio smiles that little smile that Andrés hates because he knows it means his brother thinks he’s the smartest one in the room again. “We know how to handle hate, don’t we? Besides, I think we can keep him under control.”

Andrés sighs, he can see there is no point arguing with Sergio anymore. “Alright, but I won’t be the one to bring him in.”

Sergio nods and gets to his feet. “Pack your things, we leave in twenty minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

Sergio doesn’t quite smile. “The monastery.”

* * *

Martín is just this side of too drunk when there’s a loud knocking on his door. He rolls off the sofa, knocking over several empty bottles as he does so, and staggers to the hallway.

When he opens the door, he has to blink several times to get his eyes to focus on the person standing in his doorway.

“Hello Martín,” the person says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Sergio?” Martín questions, leaning against the doorframe for support.

Sergio offers him an uncomfortable smile. “Can I come in?”

Martín shrugs and stumbles back into his half-dark living room. He collapses onto the sofa with little grace, his robe opening, displaying his dirty vest and overlarge pyjama bottoms.

“You look…” Sergio begins, before cutting himself off. “How are you, Martín?”

Martín doesn’t answer, just reaches for the nearest half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker. Sergio nods nervously, like some sort of overgrown bird. “Right. Look Martín, I need your help.”

Martín snorts, some of the whiskey spilling down his chin. He doesn’t bother wiping away. “Why on earth would I ever help you?”

“I want to do your plan. The one you and Andrés came up with, to rob the Bank of Spain. The police have taken Rio, one of the members of my gang and this is the only way to get him back.”

Martín eyes Sergio as best he can, without being able to see straight. “So what, you came here for my blessing? Go ahead, I don’t give a fuck.”

Sergio shakes his head. “No Martín, we need you. We can’t do the plan without you.”

“We?” Martín asks, struggling into a slightly more upright position. “Who is we?”

“Me and the gang,” Sergio says, avoiding eye contact.

“Is Andrés involved?” Martín asks sharply.

Sergio nods. “Of course, he is. The plan belongs to both of you.”

“No,” Martín says with as much strength as he can muster. “If Andrés is involved, I won’t be.”

“But the plan needs both of you to work,” Sergio says. “I know he left you, but –“

Martín laughs. He laughs and laughs until suddenly he’s crying and can’t stop. Sergio looks a little helpless as he gets up and sits down next to him, half-heartedly patting Martín’s shoulder. Martín wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and takes another large gulp of whiskey. “Yes, he left me. Why do you think that was, Sergio? He left because you told him to.”

Sergio frowns. “I did what I thought was right at the time.”

“What was right? Do you think he didn’t already know I was in love with him?”

“Martín, I’m sorry I made him do that. But all this? Because he left you?”

Martín hisses. “Because he left me? No. He left many times before, whenever he found a new woman, or when you needed him. But this time? This time, he didn’t just leave. He gave me everything I ever wanted. What I never even dreamt of deserving. I had it all for five minutes and then he took it all away again.” Sergio blinks at him, surprise making his eyes look round and darker than usual. “Oh he didn’t tell you? Of course not, why would he? I always knew who Andrés was, what he’s done. I’ve seen him do cruel things, but that was the cruellest of all and he didn’t do it to some stranger, he did it to me. He did it because of you!”

He spits the words at Sergio who shrinks back into his corner of the sofa and all the fight goes out of Martín and he dissolves into tears again.

He feels an arm around his shoulders and then Sergio is pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry, Martín. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you, what I made Andrés do. I know I don’t deserve to have your help, but I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate. Without you, we won’t be able to pull this off and Rio… He’s so young and you know what the Spanish police are like. They could kill him and we’d never even know.”

Martín continues to cry into Sergio’s ugly jacket, years and years of hurt making him howl like a wounded animal. Eventually he manages to pull himself together enough to sit up. He sniffs and Sergio hands him a crumpled tissue from the table.

“Please, Martín,” Sergio says and Martín nods.

“Fine. Fine, but after that I’m done. I’m taking my gold and I never want to see either of you ever again.”

Sergio nods. “Understood. Thank you, Martín. I’ll help you pack.”

* * *

It feels strange to be back at the monastery, though the monks greet him as kindly as ever and inform him that his rooms have been freshened up for him. Everything is much the same as he left it, although it is clear that someone has been in to dust. The others chatter excitedly, bickering over rooms and who’s turn it is to cook now that they have a proper kitchen again. Andrés excuses himself early, but sleep doesn’t come easily and when he wakes the next morning, he doesn’t feel well rested at all.

Stockholm is already up and sitting at the table with Cincinnati when Andrés walks into the kitchen the next morning.

“Good morning, Berlin,” she says with a cheery smile. “The Professor called, he should be arriving any minute now.”

Andrés nods, pouring himself a cup of coffee, carefully refraining from asking whether his brother had mentioned any passengers.

He doesn’t have long to wonder though. Just as Denver and Helsinki join them in the kitchen, chattering loudly about breakfast, they hear the sound of tyres on the gravel in the courtyard outside the kitchen.

“That must be the Professor!” Helsinki says, stating the obvious as per usual.

Andrés is annoyed to find himself a little nervous, as he listens to the footsteps coming across the courtyard. He straightens his waistcoat and flips open his newspaper, successfully disappearing behind it just as the door opens and Sergio walks in.

“Denver, Stockholm, Helsinki,” Sergio says. “This is Palermo, our newest member.”

“You forgot Berlin,” Denver says with that stupid laugh of his.

Andrés sharply folds his newspaper together and fixes Denver with a withering glare. “We’ve met,” he says, getting to his feet. “Palermo,” he says, allowing himself his first and only glance at Martín before he turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen.

He is prepared to murder anyone who says that he ran to his room, but he certainly didn’t walk slowly. Once safely behind his bedroom door, he allows himself to replay the moment in the kitchen. He isn’t entirely sure what he expected to see, but it wasn’t that. Martín looked awful, practically dead on his feet. Thinner than when Andrés last saw him, with deep circles under bloodshot eyes, and the kind of pallor that told of long nights drinking alone. This was not the man with whom he had gleefully planned to steal 92 tonnes of gold from the Bank of Spain, with whom he had sat up drinking wine into the small hours of the morning, with whom he had many successful heists that left them drunk on adrenaline, laughing at the incompetency of law enforcement.

The others are slow to warm to Martín, Palermo as they call him. He keeps to himself a lot, drunk even in class. Andrés knows that none of the others would get away with that, but Martín and Sergio seem to have an understanding. To his credit, Martín is still as brilliant is ever and his part of the plan is a thing of beauty. When he’s talking about welding, about the flooding vault, about how to melt the gold – those are the only moments Andrés sees a flash of who Martín used to be. It’s just that Andrés remembers what Martín should look like: strong, arrogant, undoubtedly handsome in his own way. He shakes his head when he remembers how Martín had said something similar about him, the night he left. Powerful, he had said. Beautiful.

Andrés has managed to avoid any time alone with Martín in the weeks since he arrived. A small part of him wonders if he is lonely, as Andrés is sometimes, when he lets himself think about what he could have had. He doesn’t seem to be though, he isn’t exactly tight with anyone in particular, but Andrés watches as Martín begins to smile a little more, starts bantering with the rest of the gang. He leaves with the women when Martín starts a chant of “boom boom ciao”, as if Martín had ever been able to separate himself from his feelings.

“What, too misogynistic even for you?” Lisbon asks, as they walk into the monastery together. He likes her, more than he’d ever admit to her or Sergio, so he doesn’t say anything.

Tokyo laughs from ahead of them where she is walking arm in arm with Nairobi. “Probably too much of a homophobe to listen to Palermo talking about fucking men.”

“I’m not a homophobe, you bitch,” Andrés spits and Stockholm and Nairobi drag Tokyo away from him before it can devolve into a full-on fight.

“Best put your earplugs in tonight, Berlin,” Tokyo calls over her shoulder, her words laced with venom. “I have a hundred euros on Helsinki and Palermo fucking before tomorrow morning.”

Berlin stands stock-still, his body involuntarily freezing as the women continue on to their rooms. Lisbon throws him a strange look, but he ignores it in favour of storming towards his room.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks Sergio that night, as they sit in Sergio’s room, drinking wine. About Martín he means, but refuses to ask and thankfully his brother seems to understand.

“I think it’s going well,” Sergio says. “Everyone seems to be getting along, don’t they?”

Andrés shrugs non-committedly. “I suppose.”

“If you have concerns, you should voice them,” Sergio says, sounding a little too much like an actual professor for Andrés liking. Andrés ignores him and hears his brother sigh. “He told me, you know.”

Andrés raises an eyebrow in his brother’s direction. “Who told you what?”

Sergio gives him a pointed look. “Martín.”

“And what did he have to say?” Andrés asks, an uncomfortable feeling stirring in his stomach.

His little brother pushes his glasses up his nose, looking unhappy. “He told me about the night you left. What you did.”

“What you made me do,” Andrés corrects, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “I was happy with how things were.”

“You were going to get yourself killed. You nearly did in the mint with that stupid last minute decision. If Nairobi and Helsinki hadn’t pulled you out, you would be dead with ten bullets in you,” Sergio retorts.

Andrés scowls. “I was dying anyway!”

“Yes, and look at you now. Or is the treatment not working?”

Andrés looks down at his hands which haven’t shaken in nearly a year now. “It’s working. I’m having more of the medication shipped from Hong Kong in preparation for going into the bank.”

They are silent for a moment and Andrés almost thinks Sergio has dropped the subject of Martín when his brother speaks again. “Why did you do it? You could have just left him.”

Andrés shakes his head. He doesn’t want to explain, because his brother could never understand what happened between him and Martín. How right it had felt for the few seconds he had held Martín in his arms, when he pressed him against the wall and thought about just staying there with him forever. “He wouldn’t have accepted it. He would have followed,” Andrés says eventually.

“You didn’t have to lie to him,” Sergio insists.

Andrés raises an eyebrow. “What exactly do you think I lied about?” Sergio doesn’t answer and Andrés doesn’t care to wait for him to speak again. “It’s late. I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow, little brother.”

Sergio nods at him and Andrés leaves to go to his own room. He meets Lisbon just outside Sergio’s room and wishes her a good night. She smiles, slipping past him, already focussed on Sergio.

The monastery isn’t well lit, but Andrés knows his way about. The others however, don’t know it quite as well yet, which is why Andrés finds himself knocked to the ground by Helsinki who has just come sneaking out of the room Andrés knows to be Martín’s. The door is still open when Helsinki helps him up, apologising too loudly for the late hour. Behind the giant of a man, Andrés can see Martín, just in his underwear, a toothbrush in his mouth. He looks a little better than when he first arrived, there’s a little more meat on his bones, and he doesn’t look as tired. A small, extremely traitorous part of his brain thinks that he should have been the one to leave Martín looking like that, sweaty and satisfied.

Helsinki throws Martín a little wave that looks ridiculous with his massive paws disguised as hands, but Andrés derision drains away when Martín waves back and he sees his arms.

Before he can even think about it he is pushing past Helsinki and stalking into Martín’s room. Helsinki looks like he wants to stop him, but Andrés slams the door in his face before rounding on Martín. Martín who looks a little afraid and a little pissed off, and is backing away from Andrés as if he were a skittish animal.

“What,” Andrés hisses, “Is that?”

“What is what?” Martín asks, jutting his chin out defiantly and Andrés wonders if Martín is also getting déjà vu, because this seems all too familiar to him. Leaning over Martín who is backed against a wall.

He grabs Martín’s arm, lifting it up to examine the ugly scar that runs from his wrist to his elbow. “What is this?” Andrés asks and he almost doesn’t want Martín to answer.

Martín glares at him, tugging his arm out of Andrés’ grasp. “None of your business. That’s what it is.”

“Martín,” Andrés says, and it isn’t begging, because he doesn’t beg, but Martín sighs.

“It was an accident,” he says quietly and Andrés scoffs.

“An accident? You slit yourself open like this and I’m supposed to believe it’s an accident?”

“I don’t care what you believe. I told you it was an accident. Now get out.” Martín is trying to sound angry, but to Andrés who knows him still, after all this time, he just sounds tired. Andrés nods sharply, stepping out of Martín’s personal space.

He walks to the door, but Martín doesn’t move from the wall. “Don’t do it again,” Andrés says from the doorway. He doesn’t turn, but he hears Martín sniff, clearly holding back tears. This too feels eerily familiar and Andrés leaves before he can think too much about it.

Helsinki is still standing in the hallway, leaning up against the wall opposite Martín’s room. He doesn’t speak to Andrés, but he does go into Martín’s room again, leaving Andrés to ignore the feeling in his stomach that is increasingly starting to feel like jealousy.

* * *

Martín likes Helsinki, he does. Helsinki is attractive and strong and really far too nice for someone like Martín. Proof of that is that even with all the “boom boom ciao” shit Martín said to him right after they fucked, he comes in to check on him after Andrés leaves.

“Are you alright, Palermo?” he asks, still holding the clothes Martín hadn’t given him the time to put on before kicking him out.

Martín sniffs, surreptitiously trying to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Of course. Berlin and I just had to have a conversation.”

Helsinki frowns. “I thought you didn’t speak to each other.”

“Apparently, we do,” Martín says, looking around for his shirt. He’s had quite enough of people staring at his arm for one night. Helsinki however, had already seen, Martín knew this, because he had kissed the scar on his left arm. Martín doesn’t know why he let him, maybe just once he wanted to let someone pity him.

“Did he ask about it?” Helsinki asks, gesturing at Martín’s arm.

Martín sighs. “Andrés never let social conventions stop him from sating his curiosity. Or any other desire for that matter.” When Helsinki’s face pulls into a look of concern, Martín shrugs. “It’s fine, Andrés never liked weakness in other people. Especially me.”

“No,” Helsinki says. “It isn’t weakness. And if it is then Berlin is the same.”

“What do you mean?” Martín asks, his stomach involuntarily twisting itself into nervous knots of concern.

Helsinki hesitates before speaking. “When we were in the mint… Berlin was going to stay behind. He wanted us to leave him behind so he could sacrifice himself.”

“How did he get out?” Martín says and he hates how his voice is barely a whisper, hates that he still cares like this.

“Nairobi and I… we wouldn’t let him. We grabbed him and pulled him down into the tunnel with us.” Helsinki has barely finished his sentence before Martín is throwing himself at him, arms wrapping around the bigger man’s waist.

“Thank you,” Martín says into his neck as Helsinki returns the embrace. It feels more intimate than the whole time they were having sex, and if he were a better person he would feel bad about that.

Helsinki pats him on the back and sort of smiles when they separate. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Martín shrugs. “That’s okay. I don’t deserve you either and yet here we are.”

Helsinki shuffles to the door. “Good night, Palermo.”

“Good night,” Martín says, watching him leave. He waits until the door closes before collapsing onto his bed.

They all have breakfast together the next morning and it doesn’t escape Martín’s notice that Andrés keeps staring at him over the top of his newspaper. Eventually he’s had enough.

“What do you want, Berlin?” he snaps and the others around the table fall silent. Andrés folds his newspaper together with the leisurely air of a gentleman about to embark on a morning stroll.

“I just thought I would take this moment to remind everyone of the danger caused by embarking on romantic relationships before a heist. After all, if Tokyo were less of a slut then Rio would never be in this situation,” Andrés says before walking out of the kitchen. There’s a moment of silence before it erupts into chaos, everyone talking and shouting over each other. Martín though, he doesn’t speak. He just sits there silently, shame colouring his face red and creating a sick feeling in his stomach. Across the table, he sees Nairobi glaring at him, her shoulder demonstratively brushing Helsinki’s.

Sergio is trying to calm down both Tokyo and Denver who are arguing with each other, yet seem to be saying exactly the same thing. Stockholm and Bogota are trying to help calm them down so none of them notice when Martín drops his fork and excuses himself from the table. He tries to ignore how Helsinki’s eyes follow him as he leaves the room.

There’s a sharp wind blowing in the courtyard and Martín regrets leaving the warmth of the kitchen. He shivers and starts towards his room where he knows there’s still half a bottle of whiskey waiting for him

“Off to drown your sorrows?” Andrés asks, stepping out from behind an archway.

Martín growls, pushing past him, but Andrés reaches out, quick as a snake, and reels Martín in by the shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing? Get off me!” Martín spits, fighting against Andrés grip, but the other man just spins him, pressing him against a wall. They’re so close Martín can taste the grapefruit Andrés ate for breakfast.

“Why did you do that?” Martín asks, desperate to escape Andrés, desperate not to let him know how much his proximity affects him still.

Andrés smiles, that lopsided, sharp edged one that Martín remembers loving more than anything. “I just thought it prudent to remind people that romantic entanglements never add to a heist.”

Martín scoffs. “Romantic? There is no romance here.”

“So you’re saying that you didn’t sleep with that gorilla?” Andrés hisses.

“Of course I did, but that had nothing to do with romance. I’d have thought you of all people would know that,” Martín says, anger making him braver than he really is.

Andrés nods, his face inscrutable in a way it never used to be. “Boom boom ciao, right?” Martín nods and Andrés suddenly looks like a cat that has trapped a mouse. “Then why did he go back into your room? I thought you’d already said ‘ciao’,” he says it as if having revealed the method of a great magic trick.

“Because,” Martín spits. “Helsinki cares about me. Unlike everyone else here.”

If this were one of the chick-flicks that Stockholm likes to watch, this would be the moment where Andrés tells Martín that he cares about him. But it isn’t. Instead, Andrés just smiles, finally lets go of Martín, and walks away like nothing happened. Martín stays against the wall, trembling, and wonders how many times he is going to let Andrés destroy him and leave. It’s a stupid question. He knows he won’t ever deny him anything.

Getting into the bank is easier than they thought. Thankfully, Andrés is too recognisable to walk in the front doors with them so Martín doesn’t have to see him until they’re inside. He’s so high on adrenaline that he almost laughs out loud when Gandia tries to stop them. They surround him and the other bodyguards and he sees Andrés on the balcony opposite him. He remembers them telling Sergio years ago that Gandia needed to be killed for them to succeed, but the man was still insisting they not kill anyone inside the bank.

Martín feels a split second of relief when they lower their guns. Except then Gandia is turning and aiming his gun at him and he is diving out of the way.

* * *

Andrés watches in horror as Gandia suddenly turns and shoots at Martín. Glass explodes everywhere and Martín disappears from his sight as Tokyo and Nairobi empty their clips into the bodyguards’ vests. Then Helsinki is there and he is yelling about helping Palermo. The irrational, jealous part of Andrés’ brain is screaming that he should be the one helping Martín, but Andrés ignores it, striding downstairs to make sure Gandia is unconscious.

“Nairobi, Helsinki! Get these guards tied up and into the lobby. Tokyo, go check on Palermo,” Andrés orders. Helsinki hesitates a moment, his eyes flicking up to where Martín was last seen, but he nods and goes to help Nairobi.

Andrés makes his way back up to the balcony, afraid of what he might find. Tokyo is kneeling beside Martín, Stockholm standing guard next to her. Martín is letting out pained noises, blood seeping from under closed eyelids and all over his face.

“It was the glass,” Stockholm says, her voice unsteady. “Denver is getting something to help us move him."

Tokyo carefully winds a bandage over Martín’s eyes.

Denver comes sprinting down the hall behind them, pushing a wooden cart.

“Berlin!” he says. “Quick, help me get him onto this. We need to move him.”

Andrés crouches down beside Martín, carefully sliding his arms underneath his prone body. He lifts Martín up and onto the cart, elbowing Denver out of the way when he tries to help.

Tokyo goes to help with the hostages and together he, Denver, and Stockholm push Martín towards the library. They run as fast as they dare, pushing past the hostages and the members of the gang that are moving them.

Once in the library, Andrés shoves Stockholm out of the way and carefully lifts the bandage off Martín. There are deep cuts all over his face and when he slowly opens his eyes, Andrés can see pieces of glass in them, the blue of his iris shot through with red. Behind him, he hears Denver retching when he catches a glimpse of Martín’s damaged eyes.

“I can’t keep them open,” Martín says, his eyes already sliding shut again.

“Can you see anything?” Stockholm asks, her hands frantic as she fusses with the first aid kit.

Martín swears. “I can’t see shit!” he says and Andrés stomach turns. They’ve been here less than an hour and already Andrés has come too close to losing him.

He swings the light over Martín’s face and looks into his eyes with a magnifying glass. “Stockholm go get the surgical first aid kit. I can see the glass, I’m going to take it out,” Andrés says.

Stockholm shakes her head. “No, he needs an ophthalmologist.”

Martín groans beneath them and Andrés injects him with morphine from the kit they already have. “No doctors,” Martín says, his hand groping blindly until he finds the front of Andrés’ jumpsuit. “No doctors. Just Andrés.”

“Berlin?” Denver asks behind them and Andrés nods.

“It’s fine, go get the surgical kit.” Denver disappears and Andrés disentangles Martín’s hand from his clothes. He doesn’t let it go though, instead he allows Martín to hold onto his wrist for the length of time it takes for Denver to bring him the surgical kit. Then he shakes Martín off and gets to work.

Martín passes out before he can finish, but Andrés can’t help but agree with Stockholm when she whispers that it was probably for the best. As carefully as he can, Andrés gets rid of the glass that tore up his friend’s face. When he’s done, he cleans the rest of the wounds and wraps a fresh bandage around his head.

“I need to go take care of the hostages. Look after him,” he tells Denver. He leaves Martín with one last look, then tries to forget about being Andrés, Andrés who hates how much he cares for Martín. He is Berlin again now. Cold, calculating, and – if Tokyo is to be believed – incapable of feeling.

He doesn’t see Martín again until it’s time to take the Governor to the vault. He’s leaning heavily against a table, bandage still covering his eyes, and Andrés hates how the old man is still managing to look at Martín pityingly.

He pushes forward and takes over. As Sergio had predicted, the governor refuses to be swayed and they have to use explosives.

After the whole thing with Gandia refusing to go outside, Andrés has him and the other guards handcuffed to the railing in the lobby. Then Martín insists on checking on his eyes. Andrés stays back as Helsinki’s huge hands run over Martín’s face, lifting the bandages gently.

The feeling he’s starting to recognise as jealousy rears its ugly head as he watches Helsinki and Martín joke around. Helsinki doesn’t seem to take offense at Martín’s abrasive comments, but he does look at Andrés and they share a look when Martín says that he can’t see out of his left eye.

Helsinki puts the eyepatch on and Andrés watches as Martín’s jaw clenches. Despite the fact that he can only use one eye, Martín pulls himself to his feet, chin raised, still as proud as ever. Denver steps forward to help guide him to the radio, when Sergio asks for him. They had agreed that Andrés and Martín should co-lead the heist, but Andrés knows it's just because Sergio was wary of putting him in charge alone after what happened in the mint.

Andrés is just about to tell Gandia to shut the fuck up, or possibly put a bullet in his leg when Martín walks down the stairs to the lobby, cane in one hand, Denver’s steadying arm in the other. Andrés steps back as Martín taunts Gandia, supressing a smile.

Except then Gandia – who clearly has no preservation instinct – is calling Martín a faggot and a sudaca. Andrés knows that Martín hasn’t always had it easy, knows his mother used to try and beat the gay out of him, that she used to call him a faggot all the time. Andrés only knows this because once, after his third wife asked him right in front of Martín why he let a faggot hang around him, he spent the night trying to get a blackout drunk Martín to stop crying. He’d divorced her soon after, but Martín had never quite forgiven him for marrying her.

So when Martín starts yelling about Gandia calling him a sudaca, Andrés can’t help but wonder if that’s really what got to his friend. He watches Martín try to hit Gandia, only getting a couple of good hits in before Stockholm and Nairobi start yelling at Denver to pull Martín away. Berlin watches and follows from a distance as they force Martín back into the library.

“What were you trying to prove?” Nairobi yells and Andrés tries not to think about how Martín had sobbed into his shoulder when Marietta went to bed and Andrés had to pick Martín off the kitchen floor.

He pays attention to the conversation again when Martín gets to his feet and starts waving his cane around.

“I don’t need a piece of crap like you to defend me,” Nairobi spits and Andrés wants to tell her that Martín may be an asshole but he’s better than every other member of the team.

Andrés knows Martín has made a mistake when he orders Helsinki to tie Nairobi up, because while Andrés knows exactly what Helsinki and Martín have done together, Helsinki and Nairobi spent the last two years together.

He knows Martín doesn’t like Helsinki, not the way he loves Andrés, but Martín is like him: greedy, selfish, and attention seeking. He will not let Helsinki choose Nairobi over him. His words are cruel and hit a little too close to home for Andrés. He wonders if Martín is thinking of how Andrés left him as he spits venomous words at her.

“The lover is limited to being worshipped,” Martín says and Andrés wants to ask him if that’s how Martín sees him now. As something limited, something cruel. “Lovers suffer a lot dear. Whereas I have my fun.” Martín speaks as if he’s trying to convince himself of this and Andrés doesn’t understand how none of the others can see it. For a moment, he thinks Nairobi is going to leave, but she’s always been stubborn and when she turns around, Andrés knows nothing good can follow.

“The only miserable one in this whole story is you. With your speeches about love and ‘boom boom ciao’. That’s because you’re too much of a coward to admit the truth,” she says and Andrés should tell her that she’s wrong, that Martín admitted the truth and Andrés stepped on it like a bug.

“The only truth is reality,” Martín counters, a fake smile frozen on his face. “And I’m going to explain it to you. Look. You love big man. Big man loves me. And I,” he says, and he is no longer looking at Nairobi, he’s staring straight past her, at Andrés. “I don’t love anyone. And that’s exactly why you hate me.”

Martín focusses on Nairobi again as she steps forward and Andrés kind of wants to leave. He doesn’t want to hear anymore, but he is rooted to the spot. “You don’t love anyone? Of course you don’t, honey. You don’t have the balls to. You need courage to love. I have courage. Look. Helsi, I love you. I love you so much that I would have a family with you,” she tells Helsinki. “See? This is bravery. I feel it, and I say it. And you don’t know how to do that.”

Except he had, he had stepped forward and put his hands on Andrés’ face and kissed him and put everything he felt out there.

Martín is shaking his head, still trying to look amused when Nairobi moves even closer, looking like a lion about to go in for the kill. “How long was it?” she asks. “You were in love with Berlin for ten years, and you never dared to tell him?” Martín still has that goddamned smile on his face, but Andrés has never felt more serious. Nairobi is playing with fire and Andrés kind of wants to see her burn. “Of course, you worshipped him and followed him around like a puppy, but that’s all,” she says. “You think none of us noticed? That the Professor wouldn’t tell us? But he doesn’t love you back. So now what? You got shot down and you’re empty inside. The only thing you can do now is hide behind that damn ‘boom boom ciao’ speech because you know. You’re alone forever, friend.”

If Andrés were a good person, a better person, this is where he would step forward and tell Nairobi that she’s wrong. That Martín wasn’t a coward, that Andrés is the coward. That he does love Martín, always has. But Andrés can’t risk it, doesn’t need Martín any more emotionally volatile than he already is. So instead, he does what he does best: he turns and walks away, unwilling to see Martín’s tears again.

He does his best to stay away from Martín after that, working in different parts of the bank, taking his naps with anyone but him. Even when Rio returns to them, he makes sure to greet him only once Martín has introduced himself and left again. He takes a moment out from avoiding Martín to torment Arturo who for some reason has run into the bank.

Andrés has him hogtied so he has to lie on his stomach like an animal and he “accidentally” manages to kick Arturo in the stomach every time he passes him.

They’re doing okay, the plan is working and then Nairobi has been shot and Sergio is telling him that Lisbon is dead.

* * *

Martín doesn’t like Nairobi. She’s a fucking bitch and she spoke to him in a way that makes him want to hurt her until she apologises to him. She dragged up the most humiliating and embarrassing moment of his life in front of everyone, in front of Andrés, who had just stood there, no doubt revelling in his pain. But he doesn’t want her dead.

Which is why he begs Sergio to get them a surgeon, until it is made clear they weren’t going to get one. But of course Tokyo has to be a fucking bitch about it and fight him and turn the others too.

He’s pulling a gun before he can think, pointing it in Helsinki’s face, scaring off the only person who might have had his back. At least Rio and Denver aren’t being idiots, but even so it isn’t enough. So he decides to leave them to it. He doesn’t want Nairobi to die, but if they aren’t going to let him be in charge of his own fucking plan, then what’s the point?

“Messieurs,” he tells them all. “Au revoir.”

He takes some time to plan his next move, and decides that he’s finally done. Done with these idiots butchering his plan, done with them all treating him like he’s dirt because he’s the outsider, done with Andrés treating him like shit as if he hadn’t already ruined Martín.

He cleans himself up, surveying the damage done to his face when he takes off the eyepatch. He’d always been vain, not as much as Andrés, but he was proud of his looks. In the moments when he could forget about Andrés he’d managed to pull his fair share of men. He imagines he won’t any more. Not that it matters anyway. He has the case as a fake insurance policy, but he isn’t entirely sure the police won’t shoot him on sight.

He thinks of the derision on Andrés’ face when he had looked at the scar on Martín’s arm – a moment of weakness he had succumbed to a few months after Andrés had made the news by pulling off the heist at the mint, when it became clear that Andrés really wasn’t going to come back for him.

He dresses in the suit he’d brought for after their escape. It’s black, perfect for a funeral. He wonders if anyone will mourn him. Maybe Sergio will. In his fantasy, Andrés sobs over his body. But he’s a realist. Andrés would never debase himself like that.

He straightens his tie and then strides down into the lobby.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that I must say goodbye,” he says as he walks down the stairs. Only the kid is there and Martín ignores him when he asks him where he’s going. He pulls the claymores from his briefcase and places them on the ground. He wouldn’t really blow them up, it’s enough that the others think he will.

He’s almost at the button for the doors when a bullet buries itself into the wood near his hand. He turns to see Tokyo standing there, her gun already lowered.

She has her hands raised, approaching slowly as if he’s some kind of wounded animal. “Calm down,” she tells him, but he’s never been more collected in his life. “Palermo, calm down. Let’s talk calmly. But you’re not leaving.”

He raises his hand to hit the button for the doors again and she nearly shoots his fucking hand off. “You staged a coup d’état, you bitch. What did you expect?”

She spews some bullshit about him being in charge of the technical side, as if he were some geek you can just get information out of and then leave behind. “I didn’t come here for this shit,” he tells her. But he’s not thinking about her pathetic power grab, about his perceived uselessness. “This is beneath me. I’m going.” He walks over to the door, briefcase still clutched tightly in his hand. She needn’t know it’s just full of muffins. “I’m activating the manual door. I’m doing you, all of you, a favour.” He isn’t on their side any more, because if he isn’t on his own side, then no one is and he cannot live like this. He didn’t need to say goodbye to anyone, because no one would care and he really doesn’t need Tokyo trying to stop him from finally dying with some dignity.

He’d rather let the police shoot him, than her so when she raises her gun, he raises the trigger for the claymores. It’s a stand-off, but then Helsinki is there, running towards him with his hands raised, calling Martín’s name as if he hadn’t betrayed him like everyone else.

“Have some dignity,” he tells Helsinki, but really he’s just trying to hold onto his own.

“Where are you going? To prison? To get shot in the head?” Helsinki asks, pointedly glancing at Martín’s hand.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says and he means it as much as when he said he had no issue killing Tokyo. Helsinki keeps walking towards him and then suddenly Andrés appears behind him.

“Berlin!” Tokyo yells when she sees him. “Palermo is trying to leave like a fucking traitor.”

Andrés looks as calm as ever, the picture of elegance even in a red jumpsuit. Martín doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see his indifference.

He focusses his attention on Helsinki who is still inching towards him.

“I told you, I won’t betray you,” Martín spits at Tokyo, gesturing to his briefcase again.

Andrés steps forward. “And what exactly do you have in that briefcase, Palermo? Because I have kept the state secrets locked in an office. There’s no way you have them. And the police won’t spare you if you don’t have proof.”

Martín glares at him. “It doesn’t matter. I might not even get close enough to show them, in which case… who cares if all I have in my briefcase are muffins."

In front of him, Helsinki draws in a sharp breath. “You are looking to get shot,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

“And why do you care? Huh, Helsi,” Martín keeps his tone mocking. If he needs to hurt Helsinki to get himself out of this fucking bank then he will. “Why would any of you? Tokyo doesn’t. She just said she was going to kill me. So why don’t you all take a step back and let me fucking leave!”

Then Helsinki is picking up the mines like the fool he is. “If you leave, Palermo, then I’ll go ‘boom boom ciao’.”

Martín growls, the trigger trembling in his hand. His vision is foggy and he doesn’t know if it’s because Andrés fucked up taking the glass out, or his eyes are full of tears. Helsinki just keeps moving forward and suddenly his arms are wrapped around Martín. And Martín knows it’s just so that if he decides to detonate the bombs he’ll take himself out too, but no one has touched him like this in so long. He remembers before that night in the monastery, how he used to read with his head in Andrés lap, listening to the other man talk about art and the museums they should visit. He remembers how Andrés had held him after Marietta called him a faggot and he had tried to drown himself in whisky.

Helsinki is stroking his back as best he can with a mine in each hand and Martín wants to be held and never let go of again.

Over Helsinki’s broad shoulder he can see Andrés, staring right at him and Martín wants to scream. Wants to yell at him and ask if he likes seeing the mess Martín has become, the mess Andrés created.

Helsinki just keeps holding him. “I got you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Martín’s neck as Tokyo pulls the remote trigger from his hand.

“Tie him up,” she orders Helsinki, as she circles around to relieve him of the deactivated mines. Helsinki doesn’t move, so neither does Martín, and then Andrés is striding up to them.

“Tokyo, that’s enough of your ridiculous attempt at a power grab. I had enough of that in the mint. Stay here and watch the prisoners. Helsinki, get your hands off Palermo and then go check on Nairobi. And you,” Andrés says, grabbing Martín’s arm. “Come with me.”

Helsinki lets go of Martín and Tokyo glares at them all, but doesn’t argue. Martín lets himself be dragged away by Andrés and into one of the offices near the library. Andrés doesn’t say a word until he’s pushed Martín into one of the chairs and locked the door.

Then he rounds on Martín, eyes filled with fire. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Andrés asks him and Martín shrugs.

“I wanted a change of scenery,” he says snarkily and Andrés glares.

“No. No fucking jokes. You were ready to blow up the lobby just so you could go out and be shot by police.”

Martín averts his gaze, staring at the wood panelled wall above Andrés head.

“Martín! Fucking answer me!” Andrés yells, leaning over him.

“Why?” Martín spits back. “Why do you care Andrés? Oh wait, you don’t. You don’t care, none of you fucking care. You better let me go out there now, or the first chance I get, I’m blowing my brains out with one of the guns Sergio so kindly provided us with.”

Andrés actually looks shocked and a part of Martín feels vindictively pleased to have finally elicited an uncalculated reaction from him. “What is wrong with you? You aren’t the Martín I used to know.”

“No, I’m not. That Martín was a fool. A love-sick idiot who never stood a chance against approximately 99 percent of the women in the world. So he’s dead now,” Martín says and he’s long past being ashamed of the tears that are streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry that you don’t like what’s left, but if you let me out of this fucking bank then you won’t have to live with this version of me much longer.”

Andrés has gone pale, if Martín didn’t know better he would say he looked upset. “You can’t. We… we need you to get the gold out.”

“Oh please,” Martín scoffs. “You know the plan as well as I do. You don’t need me, you made that perfectly clear five years ago.”

Andrés looks a little more composed now, his eyes still dark with emotion. “I told you I loved you,” he says and Martín hates Andrés almost as much for saying it as he does himself for being so pathetically grateful to hear it.

“And then you left me!” he screams. “You left to go do the mint heist with Sergio, and you nearly died and you never came back. Do you think if Sergio hadn’t needed our plan to save his precious little Rio, that we would ever have seen each other again?”

“I would have come back for you,” Andrés says quietly and Martín laughs.

“You’re a liar Andrés. You lied to me then and you’re lying to me now so you can finish Sergio’s plan.”

“I’m not,” Andrés says, taking a step back from Martín’s borderline hysterical anger.

“It doesn’t matter,” Martín says, all his energy suddenly leaving him. “I’ll stay and help you finish the plan. What else am I good for? You heard Nairobi, everyone did – I really should thank her for making everything so clear for me. I am nothing but a robot engineer, empty on the inside, like the tin man.”

“Martín,” Andrés says and Martín hates how he says his name, hates how it makes him feel guilty. “She doesn’t know you. You aren’t empty. You’re the most passionate person I know.”

“Maybe I once was,” Martín says, getting to his feet and brushing past Andrés to the door. “But you taught me a valuable lesson. Which is that passion and love mean nothing. I’m going to help Stockholm in the forge.” He stops and pulls his pistol from the waistband of his suit trousers. He turns and hands it to Andrés. “Here, I won’t ask for it back until we’ve got the gold out.”

Their fingers brush as he puts the gun in Andrés’ hand and he remembers how good it had felt to have those fingers on his face, curling around the back of his neck, burying themselves in his hair as they kissed.

He unlocks the door and makes it about three steps into the hallway, before he hears Andrés calling his name. He hears footsteps behind him and by the time he turns around, Andrés is right in his personal space.

“What do you want?” he asks and Andrés smiles.

“You called me a liar, Martín.”

Martín shrugs. “So?”

“So,” Andrés says slowly. “I am many things, but I’m not a liar.”

Martín swallows, his traitorous heart racing at having Andrés so close to him. “What are you talking about, Andrés?”

“Five years ago, I told you we were soulmates. Do you think I was lying?”

“I think you did whatever you had to, to do what Sergio asked of you. Which was to get rid of me,” Martín whispers, as Andrés steps closer, pinning Martín against the wall.

Andrés chuckles. “Really? And when I said I loved you? Was that a lie too?” Martín’s mouth is too dry to speak so he just nods. “And when I kissed you, after you had already kissed me. Was that a lie as well?”

Andrés face is only inches from his own now, and Martín can’t help the tears that creep out of the corners of his eyes. “Andrés please.”

“Please, what?” Andrés purrs.

“Please don’t,” Martín chokes. “I can’t, I can’t take you doing this again.”

Andrés grabs his wrist and rubs his thumb over the scar the long-sleeved shirt can’t quite hide. “And I can’t take you doing this again. You were going to leave, leave me for good.”

“You left me first,” Martín accuses, his sobs making his accent thicker.

“Because I thought I was dying!” Andrés hisses. “I have my mother’s disease and they told me I only had a few years left. And of all the people in my life, you are the one I couldn’t bear seeing me die. You’re the one I knew it would be hardest on.”

“But,” Martín stutters. “But you’re still here.”

Andrés nods. “Because Sergio found some experimental treatment in Hong Kong.”

Martín has a brief moment of sympathy, for Andrés having to spend years thinking he might have only months left to live, but then his own hurt overtakes him again. “So why didn’t you come back?”

“Because,” Andrés says and finally, finally his façade cracks and he looks just as worn and beaten as Martín feels. “Because I’m a coward. Like you said. And I was afraid that if I came back, you would tell me to leave again.”

Martín shakes his head. “Never, I would never have sent you away.”

“Martín,” Andrés breathes, finally letting go of Martín’s wrist, his hand instead sliding up his neck until his thumb is pressing into the hollow just below Martín’s ear. “You told Nairobi you don’t love anyone. Is that true? You don’t love me anymore?”

“I… No,” Martín says, his cheeks heating. “No, of course I still do. How could I not?”

Andrés stares at him and Martín is so afraid that his friend is just going to turn and leave. But then Andrés is pulling him forward, their lips crashing together in an echo of their first kiss, all those years ago in the monastery. It’s messy, and off-centre, and perfect, and Martín clutches the back of Andrés’ neck so hard that he’s sure he’ll leave bruises.

“I love you,” Andrés says when they break apart, immediately diving back in for another kiss. Martín stops him, his hands shaking as he strokes the hair in the nape of Andrés’ neck.

“Are you sure?” he whispers. “Because if this is just to manipulate me so you can leave again…” He trails off with a sob and Andrés pulls him into a fierce kiss.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything my life, Martín. I promise, I’m never leaving you again,” he says, and Martín believes him, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “We’re soulmates. So that means you can’t leave me either. Not with a gun, or a bomb, or a fucking knife. Okay?”

“Okay,” Martín nods and then they are colliding again, two stars at the beginning of creation.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! I don't speak spanish and I watched the show with subtitles so I apologise for any differences in dialogue apart from the bits I invented.
> 
> Second part is up now!!!
> 
> Feel free to stop by my [tumblr](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com/ask) and say hi!


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